


My Muse

by toxic_corn



Series: Who's Keeping Who [2]
Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Bath Sex, Domestic Violence, F/M, Manipulation, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 17:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30042057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toxic_corn/pseuds/toxic_corn
Summary: You don't really know how to explain fan fiction to Brahms...
Relationships: Brahms Heelshire/Reader, Brahms Heelshire/You
Series: Who's Keeping Who [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2160807
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	My Muse

You're in the bathtub and Brahms is seated on the floor next to you. He never lets you do this in private and you resented it at first but now it's something you've gotten used to. He watches your every move, his eyes roving over your body like a physical caress. You wish he'd at least look away when you clean your privates but as the saying goes, wish in one hand...

So mostly you just pretend he isn't there. You run a washcloth over your front, washing under your breasts and you think of the amazing shower you had in your apartment, the one with the perfect water pressure. You always stocked up at every Semi-Annual Sale Bath and Bodyworks had and you always smelled seasonally appropriate. You'd give anything to be back in that apartment again, even though your neighbors had loud arguments that upset your roommate's cat until he ended up on top of the refrigerator, crying, and had to be coaxed down with treats. Everything about your current situation makes your past look like a cutesy Thomas Kincade painting, though. 

From what you can figure, it's March. You're missing St. Patrick's day or have missed it or you're going to miss it. Your few friends probably wonder why you haven't been answering their texts but you've been uncommunicative in the past so it likely hasn't set off alarm bells. Your mom is in no position to worry about you anymore, same with your dad. Who knows where your brother is. Your Animal Crossing town must be filled with weeds and... shit, you never updated that Captain America fic you meant to finish. Now no one will ever know how you were going to have Cap and Bucky Barnes fuck in a sauna and Bucky would finally, _finally_ tell Steve that he loves him.

You can't believe you're thinking of slash and you start laughing. It's sudden and loud and it startles Brahms. Fuck.

“What's so funny?” he asks.

For a second, you're ready to tell him but honestly? How much is he really gonna understand? In 1991, when he first went into seclusion, the Internet wasn't really a thing. It existed, sure, but it wasn't widely used on home computers and the Heelshire house sure as shit didn't have a computer. Maybe he'd have used one at school but they wouldn't have had Internet access, they'd probably just played typing games to familiarize the kids with the keyboard. 

“It's uh, too weird to explain,” you reply.

“Tell me,” Brahms repeats, his voice lowering. Great. Now he's gonna get all worked up and think you're laughing at him.

You give him a self-deprecating smile. “It's so dumb, though. I don't want you to think I'm dumb.”

“Tell me,” Brahms says again.

“Well, now I can't, since you've built it up so much,” you say and oh shit, oh shit you didn't play this right. This wasn't the time for “I'm a dumb girl tee hee” that only works when he's sleepy or bored. When he's this hyper focused on your nudity and already feeling self conscious because he doesn't like baths and you remarked on it once it should be no surprise that---

“TELL ME!” he bellows and slaps you so fucking hard your head hits the wall and you see stars. Your whole face burns and you can feel your eye beginning to swell. Tears are spilling freely down your cheeks and... and he's not the only one who can get angry.

You grab the shampoo bottle and lob it into his face. “Fuck you!” you scream at him. “Fuck you, you piece of shit! You don't get to hit me! Nobody hits me! Not anymore! Not _ever_!”

He's frightened. You've never lashed out at him like this and for a second you want to keep going, climb out of the tub and just punch his stupid fucking face until it's pulp. Realistically, he'd never let you get that far. You do need to keep him frightened, though. If he recovers himself, he's going to hurt you worse for the profanity and for throwing the shampoo bottle.

While he's still gawping at you, you grab his hands and wrap them around your throat. “Just kill me already,” you sob. “If you hate me so much that you'd hurt me, just kill me. I can't stand this. I thought you--- I thought you---”

He's crying now. His hands don't tighten around your neck but he doesn't exactly drop them either. He's crying and you're crying and god this is so stupid, how can this be your life now, it can't get any dumber than this... Then he tops himself by climbing into the tub with you and he gathers you into his arms and cries into your neck and you're stroking his hair and shushing him.

“I don't hate you,” he says through his tears. “I love you. You're my girl.”

This... is new. You can work with his. You breathe raggedly for a moment and whisper, “Do you mean that?”

“Yes,” he says fervently, pressing kisses to your neck. “Yes.”

You pass a hand over his hair that's now a little damp. “I was laughing because... I was thinking about this story I was writing. Back at home? A few people were reading it and I realized just now that they're never gonna know how it ends.”

He sniffles and lifts his head. Snot's dribbling out of his nose. “You're a writer?”

“Well. I try to be,” you say and shrug, looking embarrassed. “I'm not really that good.”

Brahms sniffles again and the snot dangling from his nose goes back up in his nostril. “Can you write something for me to read?”

“Maybe,” you say. “If I can get some inspiration.”

“What inspires you?” Brahms asks.

_Freedom. Watching a really good movie. Sitting outside with a mug of coffee and just staring into space. Anything but being here._

Instead, you shrug coyly and tug on his collar. “I don't know. I haven't been inspired in awhile. Do you wanna be my muse?”

He's not crying anymore but he's looking at you in interest. You've never really been flirtatious with him like this. You're going out on a limb here, but you want to make sure his rage is gone and the crying thing is too gross and needs to stop. So you start kissing his face, unbutton his shirt and kiss his chest, and by the time you have his pants open, he's gasping and moaning. His cock is long and hard and you're all slick and wet so he slides in with no trouble. You start bouncing exuberantly, making sure your tits are in motion because he likes your tits more than anyone you've ever been with before. His face is awestruck and his hands settle lightly on your hips. This is the first time you've taken control, that you initiate this. It's always been at night in bed that he climbs on top and just ruts until he comes and you quietly take it, maybe moaning softly once in awhile in encouragement.

This is different. You actually come and have the presence of mind to shout his name while it happens. Then you hastily climb off him and jerk him off until he comes on your tits and you make a big show of shuddering all over and rubbing his cum into your skin.

“That's my favorite,” you say and smile.

“Is it?” he pants, sinking backward in the tub. 

You lean forward and kiss his forehead. “Thank you, my muse.”

He's cuddly and calm the rest of the evening and you actually sleep through the night for once since he doesn't wake you for his midnight fuck. He's too satisfied from the bathtime romp.

In the morning, he wakes you early. He's tugging you out of bed, beaming in excitement and you're still half awake when you wrap yourself up in a robe. He takes your hand and drags you down the stairs and then you're both in his father's office. 

“Um....” you say. You've been in the office before. He hasn't done anything new to it.

He pushes you gently between your shoulder blades toward the desk. He's cleared it off except for a pile of paper and a fountain pen. 

“This is your writing space,” Brahms tells you. “Every morning for an hour, you can write. Maybe it will be good, maybe it won't, but you can try.”

You don't know what to say. You stare at the desk and clutch at your robe and wonder if maybe you're still dreaming?

“I'll go make breakfast,” Brahms says. “You like your eggs scrambled, yes?”

“You did this for me?” you blurt. You turn and face him and it's... It's crazy but he's smiling and almost seems normal. He's given you a space to be creative and he's actually gonna leave you alone for awhile to do it. “Thank you,” you say softly. Sincerely.

He smiles and says, “I get to read it, though.” 

Well. There had to be a catch but at least it was a catch you saw coming. You nod. “Of course.”

“Good luck,” he says and leaves you.

This is the first time you haven't had him breathing down your neck. You suck in a breath and glance at the window. Maybe you could pop it open and make it halfway to the gate before he finds you. But you're barefoot and don't have any money and it's raining.

Instead, you sit down at your desk and pick up the pen. You stare at the blank page and think about what Brahms would want to read. Then you put pen to paper and write _There's a sad masked man who lives in a lonely English house and he has no idea how much I love him._


End file.
